


Pride of the Lions

by jesterkoops



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon - TV, Canon Continuation, Developing Relationship, F/M, Other Character Tags to be Added - Freeform, Playing around with scenarios, Post-season 7, Potential spoiler warning, Quite plotty, Season 8, battles, but also feels, machinations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-06 09:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18385631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesterkoops/pseuds/jesterkoops
Summary: Delicate alliances were forged to fight the Army of the Dead. But it was clear from the start that they would not be easy. Betrayal is always lurking around the corner. And the lion is always the first to be judged.(VERY loosely based on vague, potential, unconfirmed spoilers for S8, more in notes - Enter at your own risk)





	1. Prologue - Jaime

**Author's Note:**

> I am back! Slowly, but never as slow as the man himself. 
> 
> I've been working on this one for several months, but I didn't want to begin posting it until I had at least 3/4 of it written, since I would have hated to leave it unfinished if I ended up with writer's block or S8/spoilers got in the way of my writing. Luckily, most of it *is* now finished so I feel good about beginning to post. 
> 
> This story is very, and I mean VERY, loosely based on one unconfirmed and vague endgame spoiler about S8. How the plot develops, character motivations, settings, all of that, is my own idea, so you would not be spoiled much at all. But if you really do not want to know anything whatsoever about S8, not even risk coming across an unconfirmed rumour that could or could not be true, maybe leave it until the season's over.
> 
> I will try to post a chapter every couple of days or so (fingers crossed), and be done before 8x03 airs so this doesn't become completely irrelevant. This is NOT necessarily how I expect or even want S8 to develop. It's just a thought exercise about how that particular spoiler might come about.
> 
> Thanks for the proofreading/advice and general betaing by Ginmo, Kittles and Mena throughout the story. I'm sure I'll pester you a lot more before it's over ;)

 

**Prologue**

 

The torch on the wall had died out a day ago. Maybe two. In the absence of daylight, Jaime had lost track of time - assuming daylight ever even reached the depths of Winterfell’s dungeons, Long Night or not - and the guard rotation, when present, was so irregular that keeping track of that was of no use. 

There was little for him to do, as he sat on his fur cloak to keep the icy floor from freezing his arse solid, and in a darkness so thick that he couldn’t see his own knees a few inches from his face, than think, a lot, and sleep, little. His throat hurt and his head throbbed. He had yelled for hours, when they first locked him up. Banged his golden hand against the door and roared until his mouth had gone dry, and his voice so thin he couldn’t even hear himself over the drops of water hitting the stone floor from the icicles that dotted the ceiling like freezing stars. His cries of concern, for answers, had no doubt been construed to be part of the mummer’s farce to conceal his culpability, and had been ignored as such.

He leaned his head back against the wall, and sighed, the damp air around him as heavy as his breath and his limbs. His strength had left him even before the torchlight did, as each hour, night, day that passed with no news and no visitors sucked away at his anger and left behind first panic and, eventually, the kind of numb resignation he had not felt since they chopped his sword hand off. If she wasn’t dead by now, she must be on her deathbed, her body irreparably broken, or else she would have cut down the few guards the Starks had left, and whoever stood in her way, to get to him. Or maybe she had awoken, alive, but with her trust in him irrevocably broken, instead.

His head knew it was more likely to be the former. Stupid, stubborn woman. Brienne these days had as much faith in him as a septon in his gods. But his heart hoped it was the latter, for she did not deserve to die like this, for the likes of him. If what it took to believe her living was going to his grave with the anguish of knowing she thought him yet another man to inflict deceit upon her, then so be it. He hoped she could put it behind her, someday, and shoved the voice in his head telling him that, knowing her, she wouldn’t… _couldn’t_ , as far as he could to the darkest corner of his mind. _Just give me this one hope in death_ , he thought.

It was Ned Stark and Aerys all over again, only this time there was no pardon or second chance coming, Jaime knew. He had few, if any, friends in the North and not even Tyrion would be able to sell the case for why a one-handed traitor should be kept alive, when the dead were waging war and the food grew scarce. He was almost surprised he had not been burned to ashes right on the spot. The Queen of Thorns had been right, after all. His sister would be the end of him, no matter how far away from her he ran.

The straw he was sitting on that was not held in place by his weight fluttered some, even before he heard the sudden noise of the wind howling like a wounded beast and the loud bang of the dungeon door slamming shut, followed by the sound of steps descending the stairs. His shadow began to take form and lengthen across the floor, as light crept in brighter and brighter from under the door. Jaime listened, wondering if the Starks had found another spare soldier to guard him for a few hours, or if they had finally come to drag him to the noose. Or the dragon, if the… Queen had her way. The steps, three or four sets he noticed, -it was hard to tell for sure - reached his cell. The lock turned, clanked and the door swung open, blowing a gust of cold breeze in the already frigid air of the cell. Jaime made no move to stand, but he squinted up at the torchlight that, after days in pitch black darkness, burned as bright as a summer sun against his sensitive eyes. Two dark silhouettes stood framed in the doorway, and, as Jaime’s vision grew accustomed to the light, he recognised a Stark guard holding the torch and the silver curls of the shorter figure.

“Ser Jaime.” Daenerys Targaryen spoke.

 Dragon it was, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 should be up soon, maybe even tomorrow!


	2. Brienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really long, plotty chapter ahead! 
> 
> You might have been fooled by the prologue, but most of this story will have fairly long chapters. I hope you don't fall asleep while reading them ;)

 

Lady Sansa’s gait was tense and brisk as she walked across the keep. Brienne would have said she was stomping, if such a description were befitting a lady.

She had tried to excuse herself from listening in on the strategic disagreements Sansa was having with her brother earlier, but her lady had been firm, almost forceful, in her request that she stay; that nothing she and Jon were discussing was knowledge Brienne could not be entrusted with. There had been a time she would have been flattered at being held in such high regard, perhaps even for her counsel- no matter how unequipped she might have felt for the task. But Sansa, she knew now, did not need nor want her advice, merely her physical presence in the room as _her_ sworn ally, to hold an advantage over Jon in numbers, if she could not in authority. So she had spent the remainder of that meeting silently staring at the floor, as Lady Sansa and King.. Lord.. Jon reached an impasse.

As they approached the stone staircase, Sansa suddenly slowed her pace and glanced up at the sound of quarrelling voices above, the words somewhat discernible despite the attempts to be discrete.

“Jon. Your Grace.” Sansa nodded in greeting as Brienne followed her up the steps, their arrival interrupting her lady’s brother’s discussion with Queen Daenerys at a point that did not appear to appease either party. Jon looked weary, Brienne noticed, while the Targaryen queen was clearly vexed. Another impasse, she guessed, feeling a measure of pity for Snow. Bringing together an entire realm - _well, almost_ \- had been no small feat, but trying to hold it all together was a bigger challenge yet. Sansa curved her lips in a small, perfunctory smile, some of her tension seemingly relieved by what she had just overheard. “Apologies for the delay. Shall we begin?” she motioned toward the door behind them. “They’ll no doubt be waiting.”

When they entered, the place was already bustling with activity. A large table, covered by a map of the North dotted with tokens, was taking up most of the room and the air was stuffy with the smell of burning braziers and of the mencrammed in the modest space that remained unoccupied. Senior ranking officers, lords and advisors. Northerners, Dothraki, Unsullied. The Hand of the King in the North. The Hand of the Dragon Queen, perched onto a stool in order to be of a height with the table. And, standing beside him, his brother. They all made for quirky assortment, uncomfortable in their attempt to cooperate despite the lingering mistrust. It was fortunate, Brienne thought, somewhat selfishly, that the Northern lords seemed more uneasy about Daenerys Targaryen, with her armies and her dragons, than the lone ‘Kingslayer’ having brought along nothing but news of betrayal from the capital, and military experience they had begrudgingly accepted as useful. She let her gaze linger as they made their way into the room. Even in a cheap cloak and tattered, old boiled leather, he stood out amongst them all like the rubies on the hilt of his sword.

The buzz in the room died down as the entrance of the rulers registered with the small crowd. Brienne diverted her gaze to the floor and moved awkwardly to stand by the wall, while Lady Sansa took a seat between her brother and her uncle, Lord Edmure, across from the queen. As some sat down on the remaining chairs and greetings and formal pleasantries were dispensed, Jaime slithered behind those left standing to come and stand by her side. “My Lady.” He greeted her, staring ahead at the council before them. She nodded in acknowledgment, catching his smirking glance from the corner of her eye.

“My Lords,” Jon begun, “You have all heard the rumours in the past few days, about the Wall being breached. It pains me to inform you today that those rumours are true. ” He continued over the concerned murmurs that filled the room. ”I received this message last night, from Lord Commander Tollett of the Night’s Watch. The Night King’s army has crossed the Wall, overwhelmed their forces and begun marching south. And, my Lords…” Jon unrolled the parchment he was holding, gripping it as if to steady himself, about to break the news Brienne knew he dreaded the most. “He has a dragon.”

Cold sweat ran down Brienne’s spine at Jon’s words,just as it did the first time she heard the news, earlier in Sansa’s solar. Chaos erupted in the room, fear suddenly gripping even the most seasoned commanders. Everyone but Jon, the dragon Queen, their Hands and Lady Sansa rose to their feet. She felt Jaime jolt from his relaxed posture leaning against the wall, to stand up straight and tense as a bow. He whipped his head in her direction and she watched the disbelief dawn on his face before the shouts in the room caught their attention once more.

“A _dragon_? How is this possible?” shouted Lord Royce. Lord Robyn Arryn sat to his right, paler and shakier than usual, though whether it was from the shock of the news or his frail constitution, Brienne could not tell. He was the true ruler of the Vale, yet he had been no more than a symbolic presence at these meetings, Royce acting the leader in his stead.

“We presume it is Queen Daenerys’ dead dragon. Viserion.” Jon answered with all the calm he could muster. The Targaryen queen closed her eyes for a moment, looking pained and breathing deep. 

“The dragon that was lost in the capture of the wight? You mean to inform us, your Gr.. My Lord..” Royce grit his teeth as he corrected himself. “That we gave the Night King a dragon in the attempt to convince Cersei Lannister to agree to a truce?”

“The _failed_ attempt to convince Cersei Lannister!” shouted Lord Glover, his neck vein stood out as he tried and failed to maintain composure. “We told you it was a folly! We gave the army of the dead a dragon and what did we get in return?”

“A treasonous cripple.” Finished Lord Edmure, quietly, but loud enough to be heard and sharp enough to poke at the tension like a stick at a sleeping bear. The attention in the room immediately shifted to Jaime in his dark corner, and Brienne felt him tense even further beside her. Her hand instinctively wrapped around the hilt of her sword when the voices in the room grew more and more agitated, but he kept quiet.

“ _Enough_!” Jon boomed, silencing the council with firm authority.“My Lords, what is in the past is in the past. It does us no favours to dwell on it. We must work to solve the challenge we are currently facing, not the ones we might have faced in its stead.” He spoke calmly, even as a hint of embarassment for his failed plans involving Queen Cersei clouded his voice, and the shouts fizzled into murmurs once again. “We have all worked very hard, together, in the past weeks to plan for this war. To protect our holds and our kingdoms. We need to focus on the present, or this will be all for naught.”

Glover and Royce grumbled under their breath, but each gave a curt nod before taking their seats again, as did the rest of the council. Jon rose, instead, and walked up to the northernmost part of the map. He swept the tokens to the side. “Queenscrown was destroyed two weeks ago. No survivors.” He said, pointing at the small settlement just south of the Wall. He rolled the small parchment up once more and placed it on another nearby settlement. “Lord Commander Tollett and the survivors from Castle Black and Eastwatch made it to Last Hearth. Last Hearth isstanding, although currently under siege. But…”

“No!” Little Lord Umber rose to his feet once more, a cry escaping his mouth, one that suited a fearful child that cried for protection, not the Lord of a House tasked with protecting his people.But a child he was, and Brienne felt sorrow looking upon his frightened face.

“ _But…”_ Jon looked Umber straight in the eye. “At the time he sent this message, there were no signs of the Night King or his dragon.” He said, willing the young Lord to take as much comfort as he could in his words. He then took a breath and looked at young Lady Karstark, sitting next to Umber, saying what was already on everyone’s mind. “We think Karhold will be next.” Lady Karstark’s gaze clouded over, but she simply nodded silently in acknowledgment. A helpless silence filled the room, which made Brienne feel more disquieted than the rage from a few moments prior.

Jon took a few of the tokens he had moved out of the way and begun placing them back on the map. “Fortunately for us, they move slow. Slower than human armies. It took them a moon to reach Last Hearth.” He placed the counters representing the army of the dead over Queenscrown and Last Hearth. ”Unlike human armies, however, they do not hold garrisons or land. They just keep advancing. And the more they advance, the more numbers they gather.” He pushed all the pawns forward along a front, and added some of those representing other forces.

“We are going to need more tokens.” Jaime whispered close to Brienne’s ear in his droll, sarcastic tone, and she glared at him even as she shivered. Her scowl softened some, when she noticed his attempt at lightening the mood was only half-hearted. She turned back, as Lord Snow continued on. “We can barricade ourselves into our keeps and our holds and our towns, and have a measure of success against some of his forces. We can hold them off for a while. We have made good plans so far, both to defend our people and to attack his army.” He raised his head to look around the room, a somber expression on his face. “But those plans relied on the Wall holding back at least some of his numbers. And they won’t help against a dragon.”

“What do you suggest then?” asked Lord Edmure.

“We need to take our men back to defend our people.” Lady Karstark said firmly, though with a hint of desperation, taking a stand next to Lord Umber. “They need us, now. We cannot sit back and wait for them to be turned into soldiers for the Night King’s army.”

Jon looked at Lady Sansa, and then at Queen Daenerys, who remained silent and stone faced. He leaned both of his hands against the table and regarded Lady Karstark. “I agree. I think that the best course of action is to lead some of our forces north, to aid in the defense of the Umbers and the Karstarks and bring as many survivors south as we can.”

“It will take at least two weeks to reach Karhold in this weather, if you are lucky. By then it will be too late.” Glover commented, shaking his head. “That’s why we should send the dragons ahead.” Jon replied, looking up at the dragon Queen before glancing at Sansa over his shoulder, who nodded in agreement. “It’s the fastest way for us to provide support while the manned forces move north.”

Murmurs filled the room once more, as the members of the council discussed the suggestion amongst themselves in soft voices, Lord Umber and Lady Karstark looking somewhat at a loss for words. With a deep breath, Daenerys finally rose from her chair, her silver braid swinging along her back, and clasped her hands in front of her. “While I am sypmathetic to the plight of the northern holds, I don’t know that this is a wise plan.” she said, firmly, to Jon. “The Night King and his dragon are unlikely to be far from his armies. I already lost one dragon to him and we stand to lose much more than a couple of small holds, should he gain another.”

“Our holds might be small, but the North does not abandon its people, no matter how few.” Young Lady Mormont spoke for the first time. She was not much older than Lord Umber, and younger than Lord Arryn, but while Arryn was a child in spirit, if not body, and Umber was a child in both, she always exuded a calm and a wisdom beyond her years, something Brienne admired and even envied.“The dragons are the only hope we have of trying to save them.”

“I will not risk another one of my chil.. dragons,” Daenerys corrected herself, but not quick enough to prevent Edmure’s raised eyebrow. “On mere hope. That message was sent at least two days ago. For all we know, those holds might have fallen by now.”

“They haven’t.” Jon said.

She turned to look at him. “How can you be sure?”

“We know.” Jon exchanged a furtive glance with Sansa, a tacit acknowledgment of confidential information that did not seem to please the queen. “We know,” he repeated. “This is not just hope.”

Daenerys adjusted the cuffs on the sleeves of her coat, straightening her back. “Very well. I will need to further consult with my Hand, before making any decisions.”

“We don’t have time for furth..”

“Of course, your Grace.” Lord Snow interrupted his sister. “But we must reach a decision quickly. Time is not on our side.”

“Your Grace, if you require my counsel… ” spoke Lord Tyrion, who had been unusually quiet for the entire meeting. He appeared uncomfortable with the tension in the room.Brienne figured it mustn’t be easy to be in the North as both a Lannister and the Hand to a Targaryen, no matter the number of soldiers at his back. “I have to say, I agree with Jon and Lady Sansa. Time is not a luxury we can afford, and I’m not sure sitting ildly is the right course of action right now.”

Even as she turned to regard him, the tilt in Daenerys’ head betrayed her displeasure at her Hand intending to discuss publicly something she clearly wished to talk about in private. Her discontent only increased when she noticed that some of the northern lords seemed to find Tyrion openly taking the Starks’ side somewhat amusing. Brienne had not known her long, but what she learned fairly quickly was that the queen did not appreciate even slight challenges to her authority. “Surely you do not think that by traveling North now, and with only a small portion of our men, we will stop the army of the dead from advancing?”

“No. And I wouldn’t reccommend engaging in open battle. This should be primarily a rescue operation.“ replied Tyrion. “But it’s about more than assisting a few survivors. Facing that army and its dragon is only a matter of time. If we move now, we can assess how they attack human settlements and plan accordingly.”

“We can obtain that information via raven just the same.”

“Dragons can give us a much clearer perspective from above than a handful of untrained men might from the ramparts of a besieged castle in the middle of a storm. Not to mention, burn and thin at least some of their forces.” He waddled from his chair to the stool and stepped on it, looking at the map. “We wait too long, hoping on a raven that might never come, we abandon these holds to their fate, and we will be next, less prepared and facing higher human costs.”

“Time is of the essence. That is why our best chance, right now, is for you to take the dragons.” The youngest Lannister concluded, wiping his sweaty brow. He finally looked up at the queen, expectantly, as nods and whispers of approval filled the room.

Her frustration seemed to have abated ever so slightly, seemingly more persuaded by his logic than cornered into agreeing. She looked around the room, probably aware of the diplomatic costs a refusal on her part would entail, when all seemed to be in favour and these holds were as part of the kingdom she swore to protect as any other. Her eyes finally settled on Jon, who met her gaze as if understanding her burden. “I’ll take my dragons North.” She agreed, holding his gaze.

“That is a wise and generous choice, Your Grace.” said Lady Sansa, pleasantly. She nodded towards the young lordlings at the other end of the table. “The North is grateful for your assistance.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Alys Karstark and Ned Umber said, exchanging a startled sideways glance with each other, the desire to defend their people clearly battling with the prospect of leading foreign soldiers and dragons to their homes. It did not go unnoticed by Jon, who added, “And I will come along.”

Sansa whipped her head around to look at him, her fair mood immediately soured and diplomatic restraint exhausted. “You cannot leave us. _Again_. After we just received these news. The North needs its King to lead its defenses!”

The queen bristled visibly at Sansa’s choice of words, but Jon ignored her and addressed his sister. “Last Hearth and Karhold are the North too. There are plenty of good leaders and experienced strategists left at this table who I trust can begin working on our defenses and battle plans while we are gone.” said Lord Snow, glancing at each of the lords and officers, Ser Davos, Lord Tyrion and, finally, Jaime, clearly surprised by the open acknowledgment. He gave a small nod in return, and Brienne had to suppress a smile, looking down at her boots.

“The people of Last Hearth and Karhold are on their own.” Jon continued. “They are already faced with a threat they never envisioned other than in children’s tales and have never seen a Dothraki, let alone a dragon, before. They need someone they know and trust, more than this council needs me, right now.” Lady Karstark and Lord Umber looked so visibly relieved and moved that Sansa could do little else but fold her hands tight into her lap, and silently acquiesce.

Jon Snow rose, drawing the meeting to a close. “We shall make preparations, then. And leave at once.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the fun of war councils! This is the most characters I've ever simultaneously written in one chapter, many of them I had never even touched before. I hope I managed to get their "voices" right. 
> 
> I hope it wasn't too confusing to catch on to the fact that this takes place before the Prologue.
> 
> Chapter 3 will be up in a couple of days. :)


	3. Tyrion

 

 ****Septons often said that every man was equal in front of the Stranger. Having seen his fair share of death, Tyrion could attest that cadavers of any rank and title stank and rotted all the same. And now that the Stranger was coming in the form of a tangible, undead King with an army of corpses and and ice dragon, those words were as true in life as they were in death.

The courtyards were busier than he had ever seen them. The breaks in snowfall were getting rarer and each day shorter, so every lord and lady, officer and soldier, and every servant alike was working tirelessly through each respite to prepare their defenses as quickly as they could. Despite Jon Snow’s departure a few days prior, Winterfell did not seem to be wanting for a centering force, Lady Sansa filling that role with impressive competence.

Jon Snow. Tyrion was beginning to wonder whether he would forever go by his bastard name, taking his claim to the iron throne to the grave. His younger broth… cousin, had dropped that information into a casual, private conversation, while reminiscing about the carefree days of his summer, before he lost his legs. Telling him all about his favorite climbs around Winterfell, the games he used to play with Jon as a child. The other topics so mundane, the weight of this truth so jarring by contrast that, for a moment, Tyrion was not even sure he had heard him right.

He was fairly certain Daenerys knew the truth of him, for something had shifted in the time since their arrival at Winterfell. But she had made no mention of the matter to Tyrion, and he could not help but feel the schism widening between them. He suspected the secrecy, on her part at least, had less to do with the shame of discovering she had been bedding her own nephew - she _was_ a Targaryen, after all - and more with holding onto her place in the line of succession in the public eye. As for Aegon Targaryen; two dragons and two armies already within his walls might have been enough to threaten him into silence, had he not already been reluctant to accept the title of King in the North. And had he even been the type to relish power, men sometimes did mad things for women, Tyrion knew. Even give up their rightful claims.

_They will never rule Westerors._

Tyrion shivered. A gust of wind blew snow and sawdust in his face, sticking to his beard and stinging his eyes. He rubbed it off with a gloved hand and blinked down at where woodworkers were busy builiding the trebuchets they would use to fling burning oil beyond the walls. Wildfire would have been more effective, he thought, but only his sweet sister stocked any, and she was not going to fight on their side.

His brother, however, was. Tyrion watched from his vantage point as Jaime inspected the trebuchets and led a small group of master woodworkers and smiths across the yard, his cloak flapping behind him like a shadow and Lady Brienne by his side, struggling to hold some large parchments open against the wind. When they disappeared from view under the stone arches below, Tyrion wrapped his cloak tight around his neck, and braved the wind, waddling down the stairs.

When he entered the forge, he was startled to be faced with a row of arses. Everyone was bent over at the waist, their backs to him, scrutinising a batch of ballista bolts, as long as Lady Brienne was tall and almost as thick as a fir tree trunk. Nods of approval and murmurs of wonder were exchanged, as they, in turn, reached out to caress the weapons with near reverence.

“Nobody is more awed by the view than I am, right now.”

The group bolted at his voice, straightening up like puppets suddenly pulled by their strings. Jaime chuckled and Tyrion put on his best sheepish smile, even as he delighted in watching the rest of group squirm in embarassment, as they parted and dispersed to make space for him. He was of a height with the workbench as he moved closer, standing between his brother and the lady knight. From this angle, the tip of the spears, shining black with obsidian, pointed straight at his head.

“Taking notes from Qyburn, I see.” said Tyrion, leaning forward and closing one eye to look down the entire length of the bolt. “So, this is what Drogon must have felt like…”

“Well, don’t flatter yourself. Perhaps a newly hatched dragon.” quipped Jaime. “He’s my brother, I can say that.” Tyrion heard him add, and he looked up over his shoulder just in time to catch Lady Brienne shaking her head in half-hearted exasperation.

She rolled up one of the parchments and tucked it under her arm. “Lady Sansa requires these; I’ll leave you to it. Lord Tyrion.” She bowed her head formally at him, before turning to leave. Jaime stopped her before she could cross the archway, a barely noticeable hint of eagerness in his voice. “Practice yard? Before supper?” She nodded sharply, looking at the floor as bashfully as a maid invited to a dance, something that Tyrion found incredibly incongruous on her hulking, intimidating form. He supposed even the likes of her were not immune to his brother’s charm. He watched her go, storming off through the yard looking for all the world as if she had just been profoundly angered.

When she was long out of sight, Jaime resumed his duty, reaffirming his appreciation of the men’s craftmanship and giving brief, final orders: continue producing as many trebuchets and ballistas as material and time allowed, align the trebuchets at regular distances along the outer walls, set up one ballista on the highest ground they could find behind the each of the north, east and west battlements and, when another one was finished, the south. Then, he dismissed them all, and the two of them were left alone.

Tyrion folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the workbench, appraising his brother. “It took a while, sure, but it seems like you’re starting to grow on these grumpy, cold Northerners, after all.”

Jaime snorted. “I wouldn’t say I’ve grown on them. They just have no other option but to listen to me. Turns out, I’m the only one here who has fought a dragon before.” He awkwardly tucked the rest of the rolled up parchments under his right arm. “Sure, that battle was not too successful, but at least this time I have two dragons on _my_ side. Much better odds.”

Jaime on his white horse, his armour darkened by the ash, gallopping down the burning battlefield. Tyrion could still feel the heat of the flames and the smoke in his throat, the screams of men and horses, and the stink of their burning flesh. Jaime, gallopping to his death. He exhaled, and pushed the memory out of his mind, forcing some wit in his voice. “As long as you don’t try to charge this one, too. You don’t have your sellsword in shining armour to protect you, this time.”

Jaime shook his head and glanced down at the floor, his lips curving into a grin. “I’m not worried about that.”

 _Jaime, gallopping to his death_. Tyrion’s wrapped his arms tighter around his chest. “Really?” He tilted his head, to try and catch his brother’s eye. “You are not worried about dying  _now_? Now that you finally have… something to look forward to?”

Jaime jerked his head up, eyes wide and startled at the insinuation. Although the light was faint, Tyrion swore he could see a faint blush spread under his beard, colouring his cheekbones, softening his face to something far younger than his years and far more vulnerable than his reputation. Tyrion knew him better than that. Behind all his brave and careless facade, Jaime’s emotions had always run strong and deep. He had spent years having to keep his own blood at a distance, and while accepting the insormountable predicament of his own making, Tyrion knew Jaime had long wished for things to be different.

“Is it… How do you...”

“Cersei told me.” Just as quick as it had softened, Jaime’s expression suddenly hardened. Gone was the blush and out went the light in his eyes. _Love and pain,_ Tyrion thought. He chose to ignore the darkened gaze, and continued. “Well… Rather, I guessed, when we met.” He paused, gathering the courage to ask what was truly on his mind, not bothering to mask the hurt in his own eyes. “Why haven’t you said anything?”

Jaime merely scoffed at him in disbelief. “I know. I know.” Tyrion raised his hands, apologetically. “I know what I have done. I know I damaged our bond; perhaps beyond repair. I guess… I thought things between us had been… mending. Some. Since we’ve been here. Two stray lions amongst wolves and dragons. What do the Stark say about the pack?” He attempted a smirk, but it died on his lips when he saw Jaime was not amused. “I guess I kept waiting for you to say something.” _That’s all I seem to be good for now. Waiting for people to say something._

Jaime looked down at the floor, his back slumped, his voice tired. Had he had a spare hand, he would have probably pinched his nose. “There’s nothing to say.” He sighed.

“Nothing?” Tyrion straightened up, taking a couple of steps closer, willing Jaime to open up. But his brother just turned without a word and started walking. “Don’t get me wrong. I think the furthest you are from our sweet sister, the better. But… there’s still a son, Jaime. To call your own.” Tyrion followed, his voice rising as Jaime’s long stride quickly increased the distance between them. A gust of wind rattled the parchments in the crook of his arm as he reached the archway, and he tried and failed to catch them with his golden hand. They broke free from his grasp, forcing him to turn back. Tyrion reached them first, his height giving him the advantage this time as they floated towards the ground between them. But Jaime did not move to take them back from him. He just looked at him one last time. “I said, there’s nothing to say.”

Then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All this press and promo is getting in the way of my writing! But I hope to keep up the rhythm in posting the chapters that are already finished every couple of days, still. 
> 
> Action coming up next!


	4. Brienne

 

Brienne looked over her shoulder.

The lights at the gates of Winterfell seemed leagues away, rather than a mere few hundred yards, and the night was so dark that, had she wanted to, she could imagine they were beacons in the Narrow Sea and she was on a ship heading home. But then a soldier coughed, another moved, the point of his spear waving in the air as he did, and, as she blinked, the tops of dozens of helms returned to the forefront of her vision. Gone was the sea, and she was back in the saddle, in the middle of what would soon be a battlefield. She turned back from the darkness behind to face the darkness ahead. There were no lights to be seen in that direction. They would not come bearing torches or banners. They would come quietly in the night, hoping to catch them unawares. Or so Bran Stark had said. The announcement had rattled spirits and sowed confusion amongst their forces. For many, disbelief, suspicion and doubt - partly in the veracity of the announcement itself - battled with the discipline that compelled them to stand ready in the night, waiting to see if the threat would materialise.

Jaime’s horse whinnied nervously, one hoof stomping the snow-covered ground, and he shushed the beast. Brienne glanced at him, a shadowy silhouette at her side. Despite appearances, he was not more at ease than his steed, she knew. He had been just as much an object of  unspoken doubt and suspicion as the young Stark’s announcement itself, and while he had given them everything he could, everything he knew, he could see in their eyes that it was not enough. It might never be enough. She saw him turn his head briefly in her direction, almost aware of her gaze despite the pitch blackness surrounding them, but where he would have normally acknowledged her or made some quip to elicit a reaction from her, he looked ahead again just as quickly. She felt a pang in her chest, and tried to smother it, berating herself and her weakness, especially at a time like this.

“My Lady…” Podrick called at her left, his voice trembling slightly. When she turned to him, she found him staring into the distance.  She followed his gaze, squinting into the night, and there it was. It was barely noticeable, at first. A blurry, moving front, just slightly darker than the horizon. It once again reminded her of the sea, of foam bubbling on the surface of the water and, slowly, growing larger and more discernible, like a wave about to sweep them all. She noticed the movement and murmurs around her grow as the rest of their men began to see it too. Iron clanking, steel rubbing against scabbards, leather creaking.

The advance of the enemy army stopped rather abruptly just over a hundred yards ahead. Several moments of stillness later, two lonesome figures on horseback broke from the enemy lines to move further into the field. One by one, Ser Davos, Lord Royce, an uncertain-looking Lord Tully and, finally, Jaime, began trotting forward. Brienne straightened in her saddle, gripped Oathkeeper’s hilt and spurred her horse into a slow pace behind them, alongside Ser Jorah. As they advanced, the one thing that caught her eye were the tall, dark shapes of the few huge beasts she could see in the distance, towering over men and horses alike. But the size of the enemy host, while intimidating, looked somewhat smaller than they had expected.

They came to a stop, - close enough to be clearly visible, but far enough to be out of the reach of a suddenly drawn sword - meeting the two men halfway. One, clad in golden steel, Brienne had never seen before. The other, she recognized from the parlay at the Dragonpit, moons prior.

“We weren’t expecting company so late at night,” said Euron Greyjoy with a self-assured smile, looking none too perturbed by their presence. “Did someone announce us?” He tilted his head questioningly at Jaime, who gripped the reins harder with his hand, causing the horse to whine lightly. The rest of their party also cast sideways looks his way, some more, some less overt, but Brienne just stared the Ironborn down, her jaw set.

“We were not expecting you either. We were under the impression the… _Crown_ had decided not to send men North, after all.” Ser Davos stated with more than a hint of contempt in his voice.

“Plans have changed.” Greyjoy shrugged. “The Queen wants what the Queen wants. And never let it be said that _I_ leave her dissatisfied.” He grinned, spinning his horse around in front of Jaime, and came to stand sideways in front of them.

“You’re not here to help.” Jaime deadpanned.

“Damn! I forgot how clever you are.” exclaimed Euron, mockingly.

Before she could stop herself, Brienne startled everyone by speaking up. “What makes you think that you can win this? You might have the Golden Company, but we have dragons. ”

Euron smirked. “Do you, now?” He nodded once, and the golden horseman at his side turned and galloped back without a word. They all watched him go in a tense, uncomfortable silence. Brienne felt her heart thump underneath her armour, her palms sweaty inside her gloves.

Jaime grit his teeth and continued. “Cersei wanted the army of the dead to wipe us out. Well, they have breached the Wall. They could be upon us any day now. And when they get here, they will not make a distinction between you and us. Why risk this?”

“To be King of the Seven Kingdoms! Mercenaries may have bought her cunt, but that crown costs a little bit more.” Euron laughed. Brienne glanced at Jaime from the corner of her eye, felt her heart thump underneath her armour, her palms sweaty inside her gloves. If the taunt hit a mark, he did not show it. “And the dead are not here now, are they?” Euron opened his arms to gesture to the dark, open field around them. He was so confident, so relaxed, despite all the threats thrown at him, that Brienne was not sure whether he was truly, utterly mad - she had heard the stories - or there was something _very_ wrong. “We could have waited for you to be wiped out, but then… you would have become soldiers for their army.” He moved his horse closer and lowered his voice, as if telling a secret, looking at each and every one of them. “Better to burn you before you become a nuisance.”

Suddenly, the field ahead was alit with fiery dots.

“Fucking archers!” Jaime cursed.

They all scrambled to spur their horses into motion and draw their swords. Availing himself of the distraction, Euron turned his around and galopped back just far enough to be out of the line of fire, as dozens of burning arrows came raining down around and behind them. Lord Tully’s horse was the first to be hit, raising up onto its rear legs, and he crashed to the ground, his head hitting the snow covered field like a ragdoll against a stone floor. The animal ran off, crying in terror as the fire caught onto its fur and began to eat it alive.

Through the buzz and whistling of flying arrows, and the yells of men on both sides as they began to charge, Brienne could hear Euron laughing maniacally as he rode his horse in an arc and rushed at them from their left. He unsheathed a battle axe from his saddle and aimed it at Ser Jorah, but just as Mormont was about to turn so as to have Euron on the side of his sword hand, the Ironborn swung low and cut clean through both horse’s left legs, the snow turning red as it collapsed into a pool of blood in agony, crushing the dragon queen’s sworn sword with its weight. She raised Oathkeeper, as Jorah crawled out from under his horse and Euron circled back towards them.

Then she was swept into the chaos of battle, as soldiers rushed past her to clash with their enemy in a deafening storm of steel and iron. Brienne whipped her head from left to right, and back again, her horse bucking underneath her, the world around them a blur of dark shadows and orange flames. She clenched her legs against the sides of her horse, tried to recognise familiar faces, but it was too dark and everything moved too fast. She didn’t know where to start. How to start. Her arm jolted, the steel of her sword hitting something solid, perhaps another sword, perhaps a shield, a whistling noise closer than all the others, and suddenly she felt something warm running down her cheek.

“One at a time!” she heard Jaime shout.

Her gaze followed the sound of his voice and came to rest upon him, closer than she expected him to be and looking almost as if he was standing still, a grounding anchor amidst the mayhem.

“Think of it as many one-on-one combats!” he yelled again, moving his horse to the side do dodge the lance of an incoming rider. “Or… three-on-one, whatever works!”

Something glinted in the darkness, close to her face. Instinctively, her sword arm raised in front of her, a high pitched clank ringing in her ears as Oathkeeper stopped the blade that was swinging towards her head and shattered it into three pieces. She watched the shocked expression on the soldier’s face, looking bewildered at the now useless hilt in his hand. Only for a split moment, though. Her sword came down onto him next, cutting through the boiled leather, etching the shocked expression on his face for good.

“There you go.” Jaime cheered. “There you go.”

She slashed through one, three more enemy soldiers. When Jaime struggled,  trying to shove off another with his sword and golden hand, she leaned over and pierced chainmail and the soft flesh underneath through the gap between the soldier’s back and front plates. She slid Oathkeeper back out, glistening red like its rubies, and watched the man slump to the side and off his horse, onto the ground. Jaime nodded, thankful, his breath short.

It was then that they noticed a figure swaying on their feet towards them, looking disoriented, weakly brandishing a sword around. He stumbled and fell, his weapon lost in the snow, trying to scramble away, and Brienne made quick work of the mercenary that was about to smash a mace into his face. Jaime swung off his horse, grabbing Lord Edmure by the collar and pulling him to his feet. He shoved him once, making him stumble forward, then again. “Get on my horse!”

“Ride back to safety.” Jaime gestured for him to get on, while glancing over his shoulder for incoming threats.  Edmure looked at him in confusion, even as he steadied himself by grabbing hold of the stirrups and climbed on. “My army…”  he started, in a wavering voice.

“I’ll lead your bloody army! You’re useless here, Tully. You’ll just get yourself killed.”

A rumble caused them all to turn around and watch, as armoured elephants came crashing through, sweeping half a dozen men from their feet with each swing of their trunk, while crushing the footsoldiers who stood in their path. The blades barely bothered them, they angered them even more, if anything.

Jaime turned back to Edmure with renewed urgency. “Just take the horse and ride back. Go!” he slapped the beast hard with his golden hand, sending it bolting across the battlefield towards the castle. He watched him go for a moment, then Brienne saw Jaime’s mouth fall open and his eyes go wide in disbelief as he stared at something in the distance. “What the…” She turned to look over her shoulder,  following his gaze, and there it was. The fire. Only this fire wasn’t on the battlefield.

Winterfell was burning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We survived the hiatus! Happy premiere day everyone. It's surreal to know that in just 6 weeks we will know how this whole thing ends. I might not have been in the fandom as long as many, but it's sure been one hell of a ride. 
> 
> Hope this chapter kept you entertained some while you wait for the episode. Special thanks to Kittles of the keen military mind for having helped beta-ed the battle stuff.
> 
> Part 2 of the battle coming up next, maybe even tomorrow!


	5. Brienne

 

“Fall back!” Jaime yelled at the top of his lungs, arms in the air, motioning towards the castle. “ _ Fall back _ !” 

A handful of scattered groups of soldiers began retreating in disorganised fashion, leaving gaps into the lines for enemies to break through. The rest fought on. Jaime looked  along the battlefront, frantically. He started running, back and forth, screaming the words at the top of his lungs, over and over. But the field was too big, the men too spread out and busy fighting for their lives for all of them to hear. Brienne circled around him, fending off the attack of a footsoldier at his back, and then she called out to him. “Get on!”

Jaime spun on his feet to look up at her, a questioning frown on his face that quickly smoothed, as he seemed to guess what she was thinking. He decisively grabbed hold of the saddle with his left and she pulled him up behind her by his right wrist, her feet shifting in the stirrups to allow him to climb on. He swung his leg over the back of the horse, kicked another footsoldier in the mouth with the back of his heel, and Brienne forcefully tapped her boots to dash into a gallop the moment she felt his arms wrap securely around her waist.

They rode all along the battle line, Jaime yelling orders while she hacked and slashed at whatever came at them, her blood rushing. “Form a defensive line at the front and fall back!” Jaime shouted. “Keep them at your front! Form a line of shields and retreat at the back!” In the smoke and chaos, they came across Davos and then Royce. Both at first looked utterly confused at Jaime’s shouts, until they turned around and noticed the blaze behind them. Then they too started galloping along the front line, shouting Jaime’s commands. Before long, more and more men were repeating them to others, shields were raised as best as they could, and some resemblance of order was restored. While the vanguard held off soldiers where they couldn’t hold off elephants, the rear begun pulling back.

Jaime tugged on her waist. “Let’s go.” He said in her ear, and she whipped the reins,  found the first gap in their frontline and barrelled down through their army as fast as the horse would allow under the extra weight.

By the time they made it to the walls of Winterfell, the fire was roaring, huge against the night sky and hot as a forge. They jumped off the horse and ran towards the gates, the unmistakable sounds of fighting getting louder as they moved closer. Jaime stopped dead in his tracks, listening. “They’re inside…” He turned to look at her, eyes wide.  “Fuck… they’re  _ inside _ !” Brienne could only stare at him, uncomprehending. They  _ were _ inside. She had sensed something was off on the battlefield, but how was it possible? “ _ Open the gates! _ ” He started banging his golden hand against the wood. “Open up!”

Some of the horsemen led by Ser Davos had begun to catch up, and joined them at the gates. “They’re inside?” asked Davos, astonished. “How did they get inside?”A group of soldiers tried charging the doors, but the gates had been rebuilt to withstand the strongest battering rams, let alone men, no matter how much steel and iron they wore.

“Open up, you cunt! It’s our own!” a voice shouted from the ramparts above the gate, as a body plummeted off of it and crashed to the ground with the disquieting sound of cracking bones. The doors suddenly gave way, and they almost stumbled inside the castle. A sword swung at head’s height wedged itself into the wood, and Edmure Tully exploited that moment to shove his blade in the back of his attacker. He stood back, panting, looking somewhat better than he had on the battlefield, but still rattled.

“They’re inside.” Jaime repeated, surveying the state of the outer courtyard. The fighting, one of the barbicans alit like a giant pyre, more smoke and flames clearly visible all around the perimeter. Brienne looked at the corpse on the ground, a golden mercenary.

“No shit!” Clegane swore as he approached them with long strides, blood smattered all over his face and hands. “Thanks for the warning.”

“How did they get in?” Davos asked again.

“Fuck do I know!” he cursed again. “First there was the fire by the south gate and then all of a sudden they all burst out like ants on the ground floor by the north gate. I think they killed men all along the inner wall too, but we locked them out here for the most part.”

“The Stark childr…” Brienne stopped before she could finish the sentence. They weren’t children any longer, she knew. Arya could well fend for herself, and Sansa had experienced even worse horrors than this. Still, she could not help it. “They’re in the crypts,” the Hound reassured her. “With the Imp and the Spider. Not the little demon, though. She’s out here somewhere. Sneaks up on them like a snake, got more kills than I have by now, I reckon.”

“We should fall back to the inner walls and lock them out here,” Edmure suggested. “Find out how they’re getting in and stop them.”

Jaime looked in dismay at a burning trebuchet, then up at the walls, at the ongoing fight on the ramparts. He sighed, closed his eyes and shook his head, as if to clear it. “Hold the front yard,” He ordered, unsheathing his sword and making to walk towards the barbican that was not on fire.

“ _ Hold the front yard _ ?” Edmure repeated, bewildered. “The front yard  is already lost!”

“Reinforcements are coming.”  

“The  _ enemy _ is coming!”

At that, Jaime spun around and stomped up to Lord Tully. “There’s more of our own men at the rear, retreating towards the castle, than there are of theirs. They have bloody  _ elephants _ that can ram down these doors like they’re feathers, so you are not going to hold them out of anything for very long. And even if, by some miracle, we succeeded, we leave the outer courtyard to them and we can say farewell to all of our trebuchets and our ballistas. So when the dead come we will  _ truly _ be fucked.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Now, do you want to stand on welcome duty by the gates and tell them they can have the yard if they please leave our artillery alone?” Edmure grit his teeth, but stayed silent. Jaime turned to Davos and the soldiers. “We need archers on the ramparts,  _ now _ . And get the scorpions ready.” He met Brienne’s eyes, subtly rolling his and shaking his head, then started walking. She drew her sword and fell into step by his side, as they picked up the pace to head back into the fighting.

They were beginning to climb the wooden steps to the ramparts when, suddenly, it struck her.  “Podrick.”

A couple steps above her, Jaime stopped and turned to look down at her. “What?”

“I lost Podrick.” She looked back down the stairs, scanning the men fighting in the courtyard, through the smoke and, now, the snowfall, even though she knew she would not see him. A sense of dread rose up inside, and she felt so stupid for having him let out of her sight. He was her squire. Then she felt Jaime grab her sword arm, forcing her to turn and look at him. He leaned down slightly, so that his face was eye-level with hers. “This is a battle. It’s not a small skirmish. You cannot keep track of every soldier. You have to trust that they can hold their own. And, if not…” he paused, sighing. “If not, pray that they can,” he tugged on her arm once more, gentler, this time, and then let go, straightening back up. He said, calmly, “The lad survived the Blackwater, saved Tyrion’s life, and you trained him ever since. He has more of the Warrior in him than you think.”

He was right, of course. She fought through that feeling of inadequacy, and wished with all her might for the Gods to watch over Pod.

When they got on top of the walls, she looked out over the white expanse of the land in front. The visibility was poor, with the snowfall intensifying, - she feared it might turn into a storm soon - but she could make out the faint signs of battle, the occasional fiery streak of flaming arrows and the shadows of the armies, now about halfway between their original front line and Winterfell. Brienne stepped back from the edge to make space for the archers that begun flooding the rampart, lining up along the battlement, Jaime barking orders at them.

“Set up the scor… Shit!  _ Behind _ !” he yelled, and Brienne turned around just in time to see  the head of one of the archers roll onto the floor, a clean cut, as five mercenaries swarmed the rampart. They killed another one, before a couple of the archers drew their own swords, as Clegane and some reinforcements begun to climb the steps up towards them. The one who came at Brienne was smaller than she was, and his sword didn’t have as much reach as Oathkeeper. She kept him at bay, moving backwards in the narrow space, until she finally managed to block and hold his blade, shove him, and fling him over the side with a well placed blow against the side of his face.

She felt, rather than saw, Jaime behind her, trying to make his way into the fray, but she stopped him from advancing further, using her back and taking up as much space as she could. “Stay behind me.”

He shoved her in turn. “What? No,   _ you _ stay behind me.”

“Are you meant to command?” she looked straight in his eye from over her shoulder,  sword drawn protectively in front of her. “Then do your job and command!” she yelled. Jaime looked startled and  speechless for a moment, but then gave her a nod, and turned to the men behind them. “Rain on them as soon as they’re within reach. And take out their own bloody archers, first, if you can. And you two! Set up the scorpion and aim down.” He ordered. “Hit those elephants as soon as they’re in sight!”

“Knock. Draw. Loose!”

They continued this way, Brienne fending off enemy swordsmen attacks while Jaime directed the men. She could tell she had a nasty cut on her right forearm, blood dripping down into the hilt and making her grasp on Oathkeeper sometimes slippery, but she suspected because of the way her blood was rushing, she didn’t feel any pain. With the help of Clegane and his men, they eventually secured control of the entire wall on the east side of the gates. Cheers went up when they saw the first elephant collapse.

They had little time to enjoy this small victory, though, as shouts from down below alerted them to a contingent of enemy soldiers having burst through their defenses at the gates, fighting breaking out in the courtyard all over again. Davos, Edmure and their men were holding their own, but their opponents were skilled and she could see it was not enough to overpower them. They rushed down the stairs to aid them; Jaime, herself, and about ten of the swordsmen that were helping hold the walls.

They had just about reached ground level and were running into the fight, when a deafening roar pierced the noise around them, far louder than the sounds of battle. Men all over ducked or toppled over as the beating of wings above swept the air and snow aside like the winds of a storm. “Thank the  _ Gods _ , they’re back!” Jaime muttered under his breath. Drogon was flying so low over the walls, that his wing chipped off part of the burning turret on the west side of the gate, crushing some of the men, friend and foe, that were fighting below. Then he flew back towards the battlefield.

It seemed to stun their enemies into silence, the fighting stopping all around them. Brienne guessed that, like most, they had never seen a dragon before. They all looked open mouthed at the sky, and that moment of distraction was enough for their men to make quick work of four of the seven mercenaries that had been spared by the collapse of the barbican. The three that were left were outnumbered and clearly nervous, stealing fearful glances  at the sky as they backed off a couple of steps. “What the fuck?!” screamed one at his companions. “What the fuck are the dragons doing here? He said there’d be no fucking dragons!”

Davos’s eyes went wide. “ _ Who _ ?” he grabbed the man by the collar, holding his sword against his neck. “Who told you?” The mercenary just spat at his feet, and Davos pressed the blade against his skin, drawing blood. “ _ Speak _ ! Or I’ll cut your throat.”

“Ya think I know who the spies are?” the man pushed his head in closer to Davos’, unperturbed by the threat or the pain. “I’m just a fucking soldier. But I ain’t paid enough for this!” he tilted his eyes upwards toward the sky.

“We  _ know _ who.” Edmure spoke. Brienne had a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, as she turned her gaze upon Lord Tully at at his words. Indeed, he was looking in their direction. “Men like him know no just cause or honour.”

“What?” Jaime asked, so incredulous, he sounded like he was about to laugh. “I had noth..”

“He did n…” Brienne started, at the same time.

Edmure didn’t listen. “ _ You _ were in all the strategy meetings. Planned our defenses.  Knew all about our weapons and our weaknesses. You  _ knew _ that the dead were still far and that the dragons would be gone.  _ You _ wanted to be in charge of  _ my _ army out there and  _ you  _ wanted us to fight senselessly for the outer yard.” Jaime’s face darkened. Tension descended upon the group as thick as the blanket of snow floating down from the night sky. The soldier gripped their weapons and Brienne did the same, feeling the blood roar in her ears.  _ No _ . She wanted to scream.  _ He had nothing to do with this, he is a honorable man. _ “The only promise you were here to keep was the one you made to your sister.” Lord Tully seethed.

In the light from the burning tower behind them, Brienne saw Jaime’s nostrils flare and his enraged exhale frost in the air as if he were a fiery dragon, not a lion. He took one long step towards Edmure, opening his mouth and…

And then it all happened so fast.

The mercenary Ser Davos was holding took advantage of the King’s Hand’s inattention to slam his helmet against Davos’ head, and the cry from the older man as he crashed to the ground set off the violence anew, like a spark next to a barrel of wildfire. While Davos’ men overwhelmed the mercenaries, Edmure’s soldiers went straight for Jaime, startling him. He almost tripped over some rubble as he jerked back but he managed to block a blade with his golden hand. He wrestled his opponent, stuck to him where the sword had lodged itself into the prosthetic, as another attacked from the side. Brienne dashed between them, stopping the descent of the man’s sword towards Jaime with a swing of Oathkeeper that cut his forearm off clean. He cried out in agony and held his severed, bleeding limb in disbelief. “You bitch! I will gut him and you both!”

Then they all came at once, and she knew she had no choice but to beat them all.

“Brienne, no!”

_ No. Not again _ , was all she could hear in her head, throbbing with bloodrush, those harrowing, helpless visions from what felt like a lifetime past resurfacing in her mind’s eye.  _ Never again. I won’t fail him. _

She was fast, she was strong and she was taller than all but one of them, but she was one and they were six. No sooner had she knocked one off his feet than the next was upon her, steel raining down in all directions. _No. I won’t fail him._ She managed to shatter the cheap iron of one sword and then the big one came at her, and she gripped Oathkeeper with both hands, a primal scream erupting from the depths of her throat as she pushed into him, trying to catch him off balance. Their blades met, and as they fought for dominance she saw two of them driving towards Jaime. _No._ _Nooo!_ She turned her shoulder slightly and as her blade slipped against her opponent’s, she felt the steel bite in her upper thigh, startling her.

A roar echoed through the air again, and they were all swept into a cloud of dirt, smoke and snow, instinctively dropping their guards and lowering their weapons to protect their eyes from the dust. Rhaegal landed a few yards away, the ground trembling with the force of the impact. Davos raised from the ground, clutching his bleeding head, pleading. “Stop this! By the Gods, stop and fight our enemies!”

“He  _ is _ our enemy! And so is his whore!”

“What is the meaning of all this?” Jon Snow swung off of Rhaegal’s back, stomping towards them. Brienne continued gripping her sword in both her hands, suddenly unable to trust friend from foe.  

“The Kingslayer has been spying for his sister.” Edmure announced, venom soaking his voice.

“He has  _ not _ !” she insisted, her grip weakening. “You attacked him with no proof.”

“Brienne…” Jaime’s voice, behind her, sounded tremulous.

“ _Proof?_ ” Lord Tully turned his eyes on her. “He’s a Lannister. That’s all the proof you need. He said it to my face at Riverrun.  He was willing to slaughter as many as it would take… kill _my_ _child_ to get back to his sister,” he looked at Davos and then Jon. “And you took him into your castle, your armies, at his word?”

She heard Jaime sigh behind her, and Brienne’s arms felt weak, the tip of her sword lowering in her field of vision.  _ He did not. He wouldn’t. He is a honorable man. _

“It is not  _ your  _ role to be judge and executioner!” boomed Jon. Then he looked over Brienne’s shoulder to Jaime, a resigned and disappointed look on his face. He sighed, closing his eyes. “Take him,“ he ordered. “We’ll take care of this later.” Two Northern soldiers took a few steps towards them, and Brienne was about to protest again when the courtyard spun and Oathkeeper slipped out of her hands. She tried to catch it, but it was too much. She felt so weak. Her knees buckled.

And then she was in his arms.

“Brienne!” Jaime sounded surprised as he caught her, and she looked up at him, just as confused. She saw his eyes widening in panic, then felt his good hand press down on her thigh, so hard it hurt. “Fuck, she’s bleeding out! We need to get her to a Maester!” he screamed. She heard the rip of fabric, and then something being wrapped around her thigh. Davos, perhaps? Her eyes were struggling to focus, but she tried to hold onto Jaime’s. “ _ Brienne _ ! Oh, Gods…” his voice cracked, then turned angry, and he squeezed her leg even harder. “I’m not worth it, you stupid woman. I’m not worth it.” She gasped at the pain.  _ You are, _ she wanted to say, but she just gaped like a fish. She would be held this one time, at least.

“Get her to a Maester!  _ Now! _ ” She heard Jon yell, somewhere far, even though he couldn’t have been more than a few feet away. “And lock Ser Jaime up! We have enemies left to take care of.”

She felt her body jolting like a rag doll, as two soldiers tried to take her from Jaime’s arms, but he resisted. Then two more appeared behind him, hooked their hands under each of his arms and pulled, hard. He stumbled backwards, and she slipped out of his grasp, feeling suddenly cold. So cold. She opened her mouth in protest, but no sound came out.

_ Jaime. Jaime! _

The last thing she heard, before the darkness took her, was the sound of flapping wings above and the screams of men in the distance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Femoral arteries are a bitch! Poor Bri.
> 
> Phew! First battle I've ever written, and it was TOUGH but I also really enjoyed the challenge of writing this monster. I had to split it into two chapters, even though the POV stayed the same, or it was going to be way too massive. I hope it turned out ok. Once again, thanks to Kittles for the suggestions and betaing on the battle stuff! 
> 
> I might be a couple days longer than usual to post the next part because I'm debating whether to insert a short interlude chapter or not in between the ones I've written. But the entire story is finished now, so it will be up soon!


	6. Jaime

 

A fat drop of freezing water on his face startled Jaime awake.  Momentarily disoriented, he blinked to make sure he had indeed opened his eyes, for it was so dark he could barely tell the difference. Then he regained awareness of his surroundings; of his barren, freezing cell.

The torch on the wall had died out a day ago. Maybe two. In the absence of daylight,  and with such an irregular guard rotation, Jaime had lost track of time. He knew he had been imprisoned for days now, but how many, he could not tell with certainty. His throat hurt and his head throbbed. He had yelled for hours, when they first locked him up. Banged his golden hand against the door and roared until his mouth had gone dry. His cries of concern for Brienne’s life had no doubt been construed to be part of the mummer’s farce to conceal his culpability, and had been ignored as such. Stranger spare her.

The sudden noise of the wind howling like a wounded beast, and the loud bang of the dungeon door slamming shut, snapped Jaime out of his thoughts. He listened to the sound of steps descending the stairs, watched his shadow beginning to take form and lengthening across the floor, as light crept in brighter and brighter from under the cell door. The steps, three or four sets he noticed, -  it was hard to tell for sure - reached his cell. Had the Starks found another spare soldier to guard him for a few hours? Or had they had finally come to drag him to the noose? Or the dragon, if the… Queen had her way.

The lock turned, clanked and the door swung open, blowing a gust of cold breeze in the already frigid air of the cell. Jaime made no move to stand, but he squinted up at the torchlight that, after days in pitch black darkness, burned as bright as a summer sun against his sensitive eyes. Two dark silhouettes stood framed in the doorway, and, as Jaime’s vision grew accustomed to the light, he recognised a Stark guard holding the torch and the silver curls of the shorter figure.

“Ser Jaime.” Daenerys Targaryen spoke.

Dragon it was, then.

Wait.

_What did she just call me?_

Daenerys nodded once at the guard, who placed the torch in a sconce on the wall and took his leave. The door remained open and Jaime heard the sound of iron rattle and echo against the walls in hallway, as the dragon queen moved further inside his cell until she was standing a couple of feet from him. He frowned up at her, studying her face as best as he could in the dim light. For what felt like an uncharacteristically long time for her, she said nothing and would not meet his eye, glancing instead at the hands she kept folded in front of her. Why was the blood of the dragon hesitating? A thousand thoughts crossed Jaime’s mind, each more horrifying than the last, and all worse than his own death. He trembled, pressure building at the back of his eyes. “Please. Is…”

“We owe you an apology.” She said, finally, abruptly raising her gaze to his. She was sincere, and looked pained. “You are to be released.”

Wait.

_What?_

Another thousand thoughts flooded his mind, knocking the air out of his lungs in most painful relief.  He rubbed his eye quickly and clumsily with a half-frozen sleeve, the rough fabric scratching his cheekbone. “She’s alive?”

“What?” it was Daenerys’ turn to look confused.

“Brienne. She’s alive?”

“Oh,” she started, surprised. “Yes. Yes, she is recovering. She lost a lot of blood, but she’s a tough woman. And stubborn. Tarly nearly ran out of milk of the poppy to keep her in that bed.”

Jaime laughed. Of course.

He rested his head against the wall once more, closing his eyes. There were a lot of things he wanted to know, but he didn’t want to question his good fortune. She was alive, and he would be free to see her. Everything else could wait. He stretched his legs out, the joints cracking, sore and stiff, then pushed himself up from the floor with his good hand, not even bothering to pick up his cloak. The thing was damp and ruined, anyway.

“She believed in you,” Daenerys looked up at him once Jaime stood at full height. “I though her a fool. I couldn’t understand how such a honourable woman could believe the word of the… _Kingslayer_ ,” she spat the word out like it left a bitter taste in her mouth. ”But that should have been a telling sign. If such a honourable woman believed your word… mayhaps we shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss it.”

“My La…” he paused. He guessed he could grant her the courtesy, as she granted him hers. “Your Grace. I am grateful, but surely it can’t just be Brienne’s trust in my word that convinced you I was telling the truth?”

Her expression darkened. She bit down hard on her bottom lip, her face contorting as if in physical pain. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke again. “No. No it wasn’t.” She swiftly turned her back on him and walked out the door, and he followed. There were more torches along the entryway, the light brighter, and that’s when Jaime saw him.

”He’s just doing this to protect me,” Jaime let out a forced chuckle, because this couldn’t be anything but a ruse, right? “You are doing this to save me. _Tell her_ you’re doing this to _save me_!” he yelled, willing that hope into existence, anger and pain piercing through the phantom fist that he could not clench. His brother silently shook his head, the guilt and remorse on his face so palpable, Jaime instantly knew this was no clever plan.

“Why?” he asked, mustering whatever little strength he had left in his body. “ _Why_ did you help her?”

The guard holding Tyrion’s chains yanked him along, making him stumble on his short legs towards the open cell door, while the other guard grabbed hold of Jaime’s arm, forcibly pulling him back towards the steps. “You are to leave him, Ser Jaime.” Daenerys commanded. “He is not be allowed contact with anybody until his trial.” Tyrion stole one last glance at his brother, as the guard released the shackles from around his hands, then hung his head low and was shoved inside the cell. The door was bolted shut again and he was gone.

Jaime wanted badly to disbelieve, if not out of faith in his brother’s goodness, out of respect for his intellect. But he could not find any explanation. He turned to look at Daenerys, finding his own pained anger mirrored on her face. “This… This doesn’t make any sense. He… he brought you over to Westeros. To take Cersei’s throne. He despised her,” he trailed off, leaving the question unspoken.

“Yes. And I brought him North, as my Hand. And he betrayed us all. I am meant to rule these people, and my own Hand betrayed them,” she nearly shouted. She lowered her voice anew, trying to compose herself. “He confessed. I know not why he did it. But he did.”

Jaime glanced back at the bolted cell door, where what was left of his family would be rotting away in frozen dampness. In that moment, for the first time in his life, Jaime felt like he was completely alone in the world.

“Come,” the dragon queen called again. “I think there is somebody else who is much more deserving of your time.”

Almost alone.

 

* * *

 

She was pale, much more so than usual.

Her head was turned away from him as she slumbered on, her chest slowly raising and falling. Alive. He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, counting her breaths. Thinking. And while the chair was not the most comfortable, it was far better than the damp straw he had been laying on for days, and the fire crackled merrily in the hearth behind him. Podrick had even left him some salted beef, cheese and stale bread, and wine that warmed his belly and made him drowsy. He even dozed off a couple of times.

He was once more fighting his droopy eyelids, when Brienne’s breathing changed, and she stirred under the furs. Jaime sat still, not wanting to startle her, lest she pulled some stitches. She blinked up at the ceiling a few times before turning towards him and her eyes grew so comically wide, when she found him sitting in Pod’s stead, that he almost laughed out loud. But then her expression shifted, and… Gods; nobody in his life had ever looked so happy to see him.

“You’re an idiot.” He blurted out. Her big blue eyes filled with hurt, and Jaime cringed, now as annoyed with himself as he was with her for being in that bed in the first place. “That was without question the stupidest thing I have ever seen you do.”

She winced as she moved to sit up, resting her back against the pillows, her familiar scowl restored. “You mean like jumping in front of a bear without a weapon _and_ missing a hand?”

Jaime opened his mouth and snapped it shut again. Brienne just arched one eyebrow, daring him, but he just sat in silence, lacking the witty retort he expected to have. “That was different.” He mumbled, rubbing his naked wrist. He had been tempted to leave that damn hand down in the dungeon cell, along with his cloak, were it not for the fact that it turned out to be pretty useful as a shield.

“No it wasn’t.” She stubbornly insisted.

Jaime sighed, tired. “I am not worth your life, Brienne. You did not swear an oath to protect me.”

“I was not going to stand by and watch you…” she was getting upset, he could see, a red angry flush climbing up her neck and her chin trembling. He longed to stop it, to calm her down. Even raising her voice took her considerable effort. “You were innocent and they wanted to kill you!”

“How did you even know I was innocent?” he barked, distressed. ‘Doubt me’, he wanted to scream. Be like everyone else and doubt me. That was all he had ever known how to handle, he didn’t know what to do with… this. She just stared him down, as determined as she was in combat, her mouth curved down and the line between her eyebrows deep, breathing heavily through her nose. “Because I know _you_.” She affirmed, her gaze so steady and so certain on his that he could not hold it anymore. He looked down at his lap, squeezing his stump hard, shaking his head, his eyes burning. “I’ve done horrible things. ”

“You have done _some_ horrible things. And you have done great things. Sacrificed your reputation, risked your life. Never asked for anything in return. I know there is honour in you.” She repeated the words she had spoken to him at Riverrun, softly now, her voice soothing him like an ointment. Then she stuttered, “And… what Lord Edmure said… about his child…” Jaime shook his head harder, while she continued, “I know you wouldn’t have done it. You just…”

“I would have done it.”

Brienne ignored him, droning on with conviction. “You manipulated him. I know you,” she repeated, again. “That’s what you do. Just like you did with the sapphires…”

“I would have done it.” Jaime growled through gritted teeth, cutting her short. “I _hoped_ I wouldn’t have to…”

“You just wanted to get back to...”

“But if I had no other choice,” it was his turn to ignore her, speaking over her words. He won’t let her say that name. “I _would_ have. If it meant choosing between storming that castle… or protecting you.” Jaime raised his eyes to hers, so wide and confused now, and he did not even try to hide the wetness and the shame building up in his. _Let her see me_ , he thought. _She claims to know me; then let her see all of me_. “I don’t know that I’ll ever change. I thought I could, after I met you. That I could wipe clean what was left of my honour. But the truth is… I’d still do horrible things for…” he stammered, forcing himself to hold her gaze, as he exposed that last piece of himself he had never allowed her to see, “For love.”  

Brienne was so still she might as well have been one of the statues in the Winterfell crypts; her eyes unblinking, looking as if she thought he hadn’t finished speaking.  Jaime tilted his head to the side, and it seemed to snap her out of a daze; she started blinking furiously, blushing and shaking her head, looking in equal measure so hopeful and so terrified that it tore at his heart like the claws of a lion.

“It’s not a jape, Brienne. I swear it,” he willed her to believe him. She wanted to, he could tell, but she remained silent. He took a trembling breath. “I… I don’t know how to do this. Just… say something.” he begged her. She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, clearly as unequipped at responding to his declaration as he was at delivering it. Then she spoke, her voice quivering. “I… I would never ask you do to anything that would bring you dishonour.” His eyes stung and he squeezed them shut. Of course she wouldn’t. “I swear you won’t ever have to make that choice.” Brienne continued, her words steadier now.

Jaime let out a watery chuckle and opened his eyes, gazing down on that face he once found so ugly and now found so precious. Lightness and warmth like he had never felt blossomed in his chest, as if she took half his burdens and offered to carry them. “Did you just swear an oath to me?” he smirked. Brienne shrugged, glancing down bashfully at her lap, but the corners of her mouth twitched into a hint of a smile. “’Tis what I do best.”

She suddenly felt too far away for Jaime’s liking, so he gingerly raised from the chair, and moved to sit on the edge of her bed, watching her big, rough hands, covered in scratches, cuts and bruises, wringing in her lap. He tentatively reached his lone hand out to placate their restless movement, and they felt so delicate and warm under his own. “Why would the Gods choose to bless a broken man like me with a magnificent woman like you?” he asked, softly, after a moment, watching her blush deepen even more at the compliment. Brienne turned one of her palms upwards, clumsily and shakily twining her fingers with his, as if she was still uncertain he would welcome her touch. They were on the verge of something, here, and Jaime was seized by nervousness and excitement unlike any he had ever experienced.

“We don’t get to choose who we love,” she whispered, tugging him over that edge. And Jaime felt he was either going to weep or kiss her. So he leaned in, just enough to catch her gaze, and placed his lips on hers and when he felt her tremble like a dainty maiden, trying to return the kiss ever so gently, he sighed against her mouth, ripped apart at the seams and sewn back together, a man anew. When he broke the kiss, breathless despite the chasteness of it, he felt much like a green boy himself. He nudged her to open her eyes so she could see how sincere he was, how elated she made him. And when she broke into a full, shy smile, Jaime felt like he had single-handedly slain the entire army of the dead and ushered in spring.

He pressed another, firmer kiss on her mouth, then her cheek, then he let go of her hand to wrap both of his arms around her, resting his head against hers. After a few moments, he felt her return the embrace, one hand hesitantly running through the hair at the back of his head and he tingled all over at the gesture.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” he heard her say, and squeezed his arms around her in acknowledgment. “If you want to talk about it…”

Jaime shook his head,  not wanting to sully the moment with that pain. Maybe on the morrow. He was tired; too tired. “Not now.” He felt Brienne nod in turn, her touch growing more confident with every moment. Jaime rested his full weight on her, - she was strong enough to take it - closed his eyes and rubbed her back with his good hand, lulled by the rhythm of her breaths, her warmth, the softness beneath him. He must have nearly dozed off again, for he had lost track of time by the time she spoke.

“Jaime.”

 _Jaime_.

He squeezed her even tighter,  his eyes stinging all over again, and pressed his lips to the scars on her neck. She sighed a sigh he had most definitely _never_ heard from her before, and squirmed in his arms as she stumbled over her next words. “Will you… stay, if you would?”

Oh. This, he could not help. Jaime pulled back from her embrace to look at her, teasingly scandalised. “My Lady! Are you inviting me into your bed after just one kiss?”

“No! Yes! I mean… I don’t… I’m not… I have  _stitches_!” Her voice was so high pitched on that last word that Jaime had to laugh out loud this time. She scowled, her face a whole new shade of red, as she crossed her arms against her chest defensively. “I am jesting, Brienne. I would love nothing more,” he brought his hand to her cheek, unable to to stop touching her. “Besides, your loyal squire informed me that my chambers have been destroyed by the fire. I was hoping I could stay. And a soft bed sounds much more comfortable than that chair. Especially after I’ve slept on frozen stone for days.”

Her scowl softened, even as she narrowed her eyes at him, and she scooted off to the side to make space under the furs. It took a while for Jaime to shed his boots and soiled clothing one-handed, - and he had not in any way deliberately teased Brienne’s wandering eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking - and by the time he was down to his smallclothes and undershift and crawled under the covers next to her, even her scalp had turned red.

Jaime was damn glad that he had spent days in a cold cell with no food and was so emotionally drained he could barely keep his eyes open, because the moment he settled in next to her and his legs brushed against her bare ones, his groin attempted an interested twitch and he felt his own face flush. Had he been at full strength, he would have had a hard time keeping his thoughts honourable and worrying about her wound. Instead, he contented himself with one last kiss, albeit daring to deepen it for a moment,  just enough to sate some of his need and put that dazed and astonished look back on Brienne’s face.

He rubbed the pads of his fingertips in small, soothing circles against her temple, and watched her eyelids begin to droop. “Let us get some rest,” he whispered, shifting closer to her warmth. She stopped fighting sleep, her breathing evening out, and he watched her doze for a while, his heart heavy with all that had happened in just a handful of weeks. The lies and betrayals had cut him as deep as the blade that severed his sword hand, and permanently altered his world much in the same way. Much in the same way, it would take time to adjust to this new reality, dealing with the painful phantom of his family as he had with that of his missing limb. And, much in the same way, she would be by his side, the lone anchor in his storm. And this time, he thought, as he followed her into slumber, he would ensure it’d be for good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MONSTER chapter! But I think we all deserved some quality JB time by now, right? Thank you again, wonderful betas, for all your help.
> 
> We are nearly there! One more big chapter and then an epilogue coming up (plotty reveals still to come!), which I will now probably post every day so that it's all done by Sunday pre-episode.


	7. Tyrion

 

Days had turned into a week, and one week into several, before Tyrion finally received a visit from someone other than a guard.

Jaime looked no less angry and hurt than he had when they switched places in this dungeon. But he was still very much his big brother, the one who could not help but love, no matter what, and a look of profound worry crossed his face, as he looked down upon Tyrion, curled up in the warmest - if one could even use that word - spot he could find.

His beard had grown longer and filthier than when he had travelled to Essos inside a box. He had lost weight, his dirty, damp clothing hanging loose off his limbs, and he spent most of his waking hours trembling. Tyrion liked to pretend the cold was the only reason for his shivers and cold sweats, not the wine he had not touched in weeks, or whatever it was that was burning him up from the inside. The chest pains were the worst. They now accompanied every breath he took and tore at his lungs whenever he coughed. Most days, he hoped the cold would kill him. Or that the one of the undead in the war he could hear raging outside would find its way down in his cell, and put an end to his misery. Anything, so he would not have to look at the faces of all those who felt he had let them down and betrayed, when he finally stood on trial. Now he was somewhat relieved he held on long enough to see Jaime had survived, despite the resentment etched onto his face.

While his brother walked up to him, Lady Brienne stood discreetly at a distance, by the door. Had she sworn her sword to him too, Tyrion wondered with a hint of amusement; she stuck by Jaime’s side almost as much as Sansa’s and she was clearly willing to lay down her life to protect him. He supposed he should be grateful for that, or Jaime might be dead now, all because of his own blunder.

Jaime looked down at the floor as he spoke. “We are marching south on the morrow. You are to be taken to Dragonstone, to await your trial.”

“At least it will be warmer there.” Tyrion shrugged, pulling himself into a seating position. The effort triggered another coughing fit that left him drained. He wrapped the cloak Jaime had left behind, big enough to swallow him whole, tighter around his shoulders. “I thought I was not allowed visitors.”

“I was granted permission to see you.”

“Were you?” Tyrion cocked an eyebrow. “When you were locked up, I begged her and begged her to let me see you. But she would not relent,” he coughed again, and studied his brother. Tyrion knew what he was here for, “You must have been pretty impressive in the battles, then, to be held in such high regard. I am glad they came to see your real worth.” He said, earnestly, but Jaime stayed silent. “I guess  in my own way, I also impressed with my skills. Farther always loved to remind me that I was the family’s biggest disappointment. So I went ahead and disappointed other families too.”

Where flattery had failed, his attempt at humour succeeded in triggering a reaction. “Do you think this is funny?” Jaime barked, his voice bouncing off the walls of the empty cell, and making Tyrion’s head throb even more than it already did.

He rubbed his temple with one hand. “No. No I don’t. It’s quite tragic, actually,”  he sighed, “Look… we both know what you’re really here for… At least, I think…” he glanced nervously over Jaime’s shoulder at Lady Brienne. The woman was a giant and had nearly killed Sandor Clegane in single combat. And that scowl she always wore on her face did not make Tyrion feel at ease at all. He truly seemed to have a penchant for putting himself in a position where his siblings wanted and could have him cut in half with a snap of their fingers.

“Why did you do it?” Jaime finally asked, quietly. “What were you even hoping to achieve, when you knew the _dead_ were coming? You’re a smart man, you must have known better than that.”

Tyrion shook his head. “Whatever my reasons might be… they matter not.”

Jaime took a step closer, his anger bubbling back up to the surface. “You killed _our_ father. You fled to another continent to bring a Targaryen queen, dragons and two armies just to unseat our family from that throne. She _abused_ you since you were a child.” The more he talked, the shorter Tyrion’s breath grew, every single word a knife in his belly, making his blood boil for reasons other than the fever. “Why would you help her?”

“Why didn’t you _tell me_?” Tyrion shouted, startling Jaime into  a confused frown.

“What?”

“About the child. Why didn’t you tell me there was never a child?”

“What does that have to do with…” Jaime’s face darkened at once.  “It was none of your business,” he hissed.

“I thought... I thought things were getting… better between us. That we were growing closer again. I _missed_ you!” Tyrion began growing agitated, forcing the words out between one cough and another, “We are family!  Why didn’t you tell me when you found out? Wasn’t it my right to know? Had I known…”

“Don’t you dare blame my lack of confiding in you for your own treason!” Jaime roared. He balled his fist and took an angry step forward, and, at that very same moment, Lady Brienne crossed the room in three long, fast strides, her left hand gripping the hilt of her sword, - their family sword - the other lifting from her side. Tyrion scrambled backwards on his arse, taken by a sudden vision of his head rolling onto the floor, after one clean swing of that sharp Valyrian steel.

But her hand did not reach to unsheathe her weapon; it grabbed Jaime’s forearm, pulling him back. Tyrion sucked in a breath, as he looked up at them in relief. Jaime stared him down, eyes ablaze with anger and so much pain, and Tyrion did not dare look away, heart pounding. He held Jaime’s gaze, and followed it with his own when it trailed off to look at Brienne’s hand, sliding down his arm to wrap around his wrist. Jaime’s fist loosened, the tension draining from his body at once, and he caught her hand, his palm melding into hers, their fingers lacing with one another as intimately as lovers entangled abed.

And Tyrion felt like a bucket of freezing water had been dumped on his already cold head.

 _Fuck_.

He looked back up at his brother’s face, breathing heavily. The brother he thought he knew better than anyone; better than even Jaime knew himself sometimes. He knew nothing. _Fuck!_ He was glad he was already sitting down, for the room begun to spin. He let his head fall into his hands, struggling to breathe air in, and the words, echoing in his head and crushing him like a boulder, suddenly had meaning.

_I never said he was your sister’s._

“Fuck!” Tyrion swore out loud this time, speaking through his hands. “Fuck. I am _so_ sorry. I know it makes no difference. I know it’s hard to believe. But I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing.” He shook his head, his voice breaking, unsure how long he could hold on, before he’d start weeping. “I thought I was doing the right thing, and instead I nearly destroyed everything.”

“You will be executed.” Jaime’s voice cracked too, and Tyrion let the tears spill on his dirty palms at the sound.

“I know.”

“Yet you won’t tell me why. Even if it’s the last hope you have of begging for some sort of mercy.”

The edge of angry desperation in Jaime’s voice ate at Tyrion from the inside. “I can’t.” Tyrion growled into his hands. He dragged them down his face, drying the moisture along the way, and tried to smile - a sad, pained smile. “I wish I could. I’m sorry.”

This is it, he thought. Old Tywin’s pride was torn asunder beyond repair, and  they would never find their way back to one another. Their father would still get his wish, in the end, in a way. At least one lone lion would live on, and start it all anew. Tears welled up in Tyrion’s eyes once more, as he looked up into his brother’s anguished face. He could not bear that look any longer. “I guess this is goodbye, then,” he choked.

Jaime remained still and tense for what felt like an eternity, the trembling in his eyes and mouth almost imperceptible, as he warred with himself.  “Goodbye, brother.” He held Tyrion’s gaze, the words loaded with meaning neither could ignore. Then his entire body shook and he stormed from the room, like he had fire on his heel.

Lady Brienne did not leave right away. She stood where Jaime left her, looking down at him, frowning, but not angry. She was pitying him. And her eyes were soft - was that what Jaime saw that others could not? - and as pained as if he had been her own brother. And in a way, he supposed, he might have been. _We could have been a nice family_. He thought, as she turned, to follow Jaime out of the door.

And that’s when the sobs came.

 _I love you, too, brother_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly there! Just the epilogue to go now. 
> 
> So you can probably kind of guess which spoiler I was trying to play with by now, if you're in any way familiar with it. More to come in the epilogue (and related notes).
> 
> As for Cersei's pregnancy, - or lack thereof - I honestly think, at this point, with the S8 premiere behind us, canon could go several different ways. But for the sake of this story I decided to go with "she was never really pregnant to start with" option. Whether because she lied or was genuinely mistaken, isn't really important for the story. Fill in the blanks as you wish. This is not necessarily the theory/prediction for the show I'm married to (although very possible, IMO), it's just what I felt worked best for this specific scenario. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting and leaving kudos! You all make my day. :)


	8. Epilogue - Tyrion

**Epilogue**

 

He wondered what he would look like, this nephew he would never meet. 

The seas were choppy and the winds strong. The chains, tying him to a post in the hold, chafed Tyrion’s wrists and ankles, as he struggled to sit in place against the force of the rocking ship. But he could not even feel the physical discomfort anymore, his mind flooded with so many thoughts that they numbed his body.

For so long, he had excelled at games of astuteness. At court, at home, and in foreign lands, against friends and foes. Tyrion relished how his wit could make him feel like a God; pulling the strings of the powerful like they were mere puppets, a small man but with a very large shadow. He had mostly succeeded, sometimes failed, but never had he experienced harsher reminder of the fact that he was, in fact, no God than when he tried to pull the strings of the future, and play against a power he could not comprehend. 

Every now and then, he could not help the rage towards the Stark boy. He felt like screaming, as he had done on that day after the battle against Cersei's forces, that he had been misled, manipulated even; given glimpses of a future no mortal should have knowledge of.

_ You are fighting for a losing cause, Lord Tyrion. Your Queen… My cousin… They will never rule Westeros. They will restore no dynasty. Heal no realm. And neither will their child. _

He thought about the Queen he served and loved, and wondered what would become of her once this was all over. Would she find a new purpose? Would she live? Would  _ her _ nephew? Or would they leave a bastard prince behind, like her brother and his father did?

_ But your nephew will. And that legacy will last a thousand years. _

Should they get to Cersei, it would all be over, he had thought. How was he expected to stand by and do nothing when the future of his family, of the  _ realm _ had been at stake? Only, Cersei’s womb had been empty all along. And the boy had  _ known, _ yet had done nothing to prevent nor deny Tyrion’s presumption. Not until it was too late. Not until so many had died, half of Winterfell had been burned to the ground, and Jaime had risked execution for a betrayal he had no part in. Not until then had Bran Stark, eerily unfazed by Tyrion’s agitated demeanour, uttered the words that cracked the ground open underneath him, and forced him to confront the  true magnitude of his actions and their consequences.

_ I never said he was your sister’s. _

He wondered what he would look like, this nephew he would never meet.

Would he have Jaime’s smile? Or his mother’s scowl? He would be tall, for sure. His eyes - would they be emeralds or sapphires? Would he have siblings? A little brother Jaime would teach him to protect? A sister, perhaps. One that would be honest and loyal, like her parents, and be good to him; like Cersei never was. In those long moments, when his anger subsided, he wished he could talk to the Stark boy just once more. If he was to take these secrets to his grave, lest he upset the order of things, why not take them all. Let his mercy be that of knowing about the family he would never be a part of, and grieve for the brother and uncle he could have been.

As the lone lion dies, the pride lives on.

 

* * *

 

_ “In the beginning, the priestly scribes of Yin declare, all the land between the Bones and the freezing desert called the Grey Waste, from the Shivering Sea to the Jade Sea (including even the great and holy isle of Leng), formed a single realm ruled by the God-on-Earth, the only begotten son of the Lion of Night and the Maiden Made-of-Light. For ten thousand years the Great Empire of the Dawn flourished in peace and plenty under the God-on-Earth, until at last he ascended to the stars to join his forebears.” _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Done! 
> 
> It was quite a challenge, but also fun to write a story that was fairly plotty. As I said in my notes at the start, this was a thought exercise about how the whole "Tyrion is put on trial for betraying everyone in favour of Cersei/his family" scenario could play out. I might be wrong, but I always struggled to see Tyrion betray everyone for Cersei of all people, unless he had a very VERY good reason to. So I tried to conjure a motive that, in my mind, makes sense for his character, who I believe deep down does want to make the right choice for the realm, even if he might be misguided at times. 
> 
> I'm sure this is probably not very close to how it will go down, assuming it does at all, and it has obviously a very heavy JB bias, but it was fun to play with nonetheless. And I hope it was just the right amount of intriguing, without being totally confusing, and as fun for you to read.
> 
> Enjoy the rest of S8!


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